Fire in the sky

Something unusual and unexpected caught my eye. 

It was a dark November night, actually 17th November 1999 and we had just crossed the border on our way back to a rented cottage in Northumberland after a day in Edinburgh. The previous weeks at home had been typically noisy at all hours, dark or not, from the intermittent explosion of lone fireworks as mischief, mayhem and anarchy gripped the minds and motivation of the under 15's. They were acting out their own cossetted version of urban warfare amongst the leafy suburban streets. Of course it did no real harm in their immature minds apart , in reality , from compounding the fear of crime amongst the elderly occupants of the quiet avenues and distressing resident pets already on edge for their expected duties of patrol and protection. 

Over the border we had not really been aware of any random detonations. Bonfire Night is a peculiarly English activity, more political and nationalistic than we may wish to admit in polite company. We revel in making loud noises, setting fires and generating plenty of white smoke with which to annoy the neighbours. 

The A1 from the Scottish Capital takes a looping route to the north east before sweeping down paralell to the north sea coast towards Berwick Upon Tweed. At that time of the year it is a fairly dour journey and we just ticked off the miles in anticipation of reaching our cosy self catering accommodation.

After an hour or so of driving we passed the large squat rectangle of Torness Nuclear Power Station, its squat block-house structures plain and functional in appearance. 

About half a mile past the entrance gates I noticed a flickering flame working towards us level with the side windows of the car and then directly across our path so low that it was framed in the middle of the windscreen as it crossed from right to left. 

A momentary thought was of a rocket firework let loose from the gorse cover of the verge, a bit of a jape for bored locals startling the traffic. The trajectory was however all wrong for a domestic firework, regular and steady. As the object crossed our forward line of vision it took on the unmistakable outline of an aircraft, a sleek fuselage and swept back wings with a distinctive tall tail and on fire. 

I recognised the profile, being a bit geeky about planes, as a Tornado Jet. 

No sooner had the fireball of a Fighter emerged it simply disappeared into the dark. 

I pulled the car over behind another vehicle whose occupants had been witnesses to the same scene. The night was completely silent, simply explained by the fact that the plane had crashed into the sea. 

A flare went up some distance inland. I cannot explain, even now, why I crossed to the other side of the road, climbed a barbed wire fence and set off across a field towards the direction of the purpley hued cloud line. 

Perhaps I was on a mercy mission, a single handed rescue attempt for the two crew members who, I hoped, had successfully ejected before the downing of the aircraft. I was thwarted in progressing any further by a deep cutting in the field. Squinting in the murk it was the electrified course of the main east coast railway line.

I hesitate to think what I would have done if I had come across the crew, either whole and alive or in bits. On returning to the car I stood around awkwardly with a few words spoken with the other driver and his passengers. 

There was nothing to see or show for what we had witnessed. No explosions. No drama . In fact we expressed mutual embarrassment at our prolonged stay on the verge. After a few minutes, which seemed like an eternity, a local Police patrol arrived. We gave names and home addresses with the proviso that we may be contacted for a statement. 

The incident was briefly mentioned on the news broadcasts of the day. 

In the interim I believe a reasonable proportion of my tax payments have gone towards recompensing the nation for the loss of a twenty million pound asset. 

Quite an expensive firework display after all.